The Hunted
by jkateel
Summary: On an island where people are hunted by the monstrous Dick Roman, Dean is on a desperate search for his missing brother when he meets a lost angel named Castiel. Together, they face off against predators and hunters alike on their hunt to find Sam and escape the island before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural © Eric Kripke

**Notes:** Inspired by the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, this AU is set in a world where humans co-exist with angels, vampires, demons, werewolves, etc.; however, _there are no supernatural/magical elements_. Each "monster" from Supernatural canon are all separate distinct flesh-and-blood humanoid species. Artistic licence was taken with how each species looks and behaves, with various nods to Supernatural canon.

**Warnings:** Violence, Torture, Sexual Content, Mental Health Issues, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Alcoholism, Blood Drinking, Serious Injuries, Medical Procedures

* * *

_The spirit gone, man is garbage.  
_— Yossarian, Catch-22

* * *

_Promise me, Dean_, Sam whispered as Dean strained to reach the snare looped around his ankle. He hooked his hand around his injured knee, taking several deep breaths before bending it down and heaving his torso up. The movement did nothing for his aching head, a wave of dizziness making his vision swim in and out. But he pushed past it, blinking away the sweat and black spots in his eyes as he used his free hand to reach for the switchblade in his boot.

It took some wiggling to free the blade. It snapped open when he pressed the button on the side of the handle, and he tested it against the wire first. No luck. It just wasn't strong enough to cut through steel. With a grunt, he moved onto option two, skimming the blade along the wire until he reached the metal clamp that held the snare loop together.

It wasn't easy to wedge the knife between it and the wire. The more he moved, the tighter the snare's hold seemed to get. The tree branch he was hanging from creaked too, almost as if warning him. He ignored it, concentrating instead on the slow twist of his blade. His hand started to burn as he pushed against the handle. But the pain was worth it when he felt the clamp start to give.

"Come on, come on," he hissed through gritted teeth, more black spots filling his eyes. "_Come on_."

When the handle snapped clean off the blade without warning, it flew from his hand before he realized what had happened. It was long-gone by the time Dean tried to figure out where it had went, his stolen gun the only thing visible in the mud below. The knife itself was stuck in the clamp, impossible to move; he earned himself a nick on the finger when he tried. "No, _no_," Dean moaned, looking up the snare again. Frustration got the better of him, and he started clawing at the snare loop, trying to pry it off that way. "Come on!"

He _had _to get out of this trap, he thought frantically, tugging on the wire again. After everything he gone through to get to this godforsaken island — after finding out Sam could be _alive _— he was not getting trapped in this trap! He had to find Sam and get him off this island — this island Dick Roman brought the people he abducted to so he could hunt and murder them. And if that meant he was going to gnaw off his own leg to get free, he _would _do it.

After he tried to hurl all his weight down to break the tree branch — and nearly blacked out when the the jolt of the wire went through his hurt knee — the solution came to him. The trap was simple in construction: Almost like a pulley system, the wire was attached to a large log on the ground, which was used as a weight to hold him in the air. With his own body used a counterweight, it kept the wire rigid and impossible to take off no matter how he pulled at it.

But if he could get rid of his weight and loosen the wire up, Dean thought, it would be malleable and easy to work off his ankle. There was only one way to do that however, and he let out a long breath before lifting up again.

It wasn't easy climbing the wire. It was thinner than a rope, and hard to grip with his sweaty, trembling hands. Equally hard was bending and lifting his knees to caterpillar his way up, his bad knee shooting spikes of pain up his body when he had to straighten out and bend again to pull himself higher. His abdomen protested too, lungs burning and heart pounding a mile a minute.

The climbing paid off. By the time he heaved himself onto the branch, the wire had loosened against his ankle and blood was returning to his foot. He had enough energy left to slip the snare off before he sagged against the tree trunk, utterly exhausted.

Everything hurt. Blood and sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he fought off the urge to close his eyes and sleep — and that, along with his nausea and dizziness meant he was dealing with a concussion. (But given how hard he smacked his head on the ground when the snare had snatched him into the air, it was no surprise.) Thankfully, nothing seemed broken or sprained; it was only his injured knee that wasn't getting any better, now popping in a way he knew was bad. When he gingerly touched it through the tear in his jeans with his cold fingers, it was warm and felt swollen — yet another bad sign.

Years of medical training told him he risked ruining his knee for good if he went back to walking and running around on it, but it was going to have to make do. Concussions, injured knees — none of that mattered as long as Sam was on this island.

His brother had been here for six months, trapped with no hope of rescue, dealing with human-sized snare traps and God only knew what else. And on top of all that, there was Dick and his demons, hunting people —_ hunting Sam_. His brother easily could have been snared in one of these traps too, fighting to escape as Dick drew closer, ready to add Sam's head to his trophy collection...

_No. _Dean fought off a shudder at the thought of the _trophy collection_. No, Sam was _alive_. Dick had underestimated his brother if he thought Sam would be easy to hunt down and kill. Sam was _smart_. Sam was crafty. Sam had shit to fight for and a family to get home to. And when Dean found him, they were going to take down Dick Roman together, like they should have from the start.

And then Dean was taking his baby brother home, where he belonged, even if it fucking _killed _him.

First, however, was the issue of locating Sam, but Dean had put together a good guess the second he found out his brother could still be alive. He looked over to it then, the lightening sky revealing tree branches dusted with snow as well as his destination on the horizon.

The mountain.

Its snow-crowned peak towered over hills of rustic red, orange and golden forests shrouded in thick fog. It was on the far south side of the island — the furthest point from all things Dick. That made the mountain a place with the most tactical advantages. Dick and his demons hadn't said they had killed Sam, just let him go — and since Sam hadn't escaped off of the island, Dean knew he would have tried to find a place to lie low. The mountain itself was one giant hiding spot, and the forest and river below would provide food and shelter materials. That was what Dean would count on if he had been trapped here, and he knew Sam would too.

Dick was the only unpredictable factor in all this, but Dean knew if anyone could outsmart a psycho who murdered people for literal sport, it was his baby brother.

Dean scanned the rest of the horizon, curious. He hadn't been able to see the island from the mainland, and satellite images and maps only showed him so much. But what information he managed to pull seemed accurate. There, at the mountain's heart, the large river that Dean knew coursed through the center of the island was formed, flowing into the ocean to the northeast. To the southwest was a bay that Dean was using as a rendezvous point, near a meadow and lake that took up most of the west side of the island. It ended in another forest, and from his vantage point, Dean could see tree tops like spears blanketing the northwest of the island in snow-covered green. He could also see the coastline where the ocean churned a murky blue-gray, lashing against steep cliff sides and rocky beaches that bordered the entire island.

To the northeast, there was a small secondary island right off the coast. Though Dean couldn't see it through the trees, that was where Dick's lodge was. It looked like a fancy resort only seen in magazines, and included a harbor and dock that Dean had infiltrated to get to the island. That was also near various inconspicuous-looking buildings, one of which Dean now knew housed Dick's underground prison.

Its only exit, a large bunker door built into a rock face and hidden by foliage, led out to the main island. It had sealed shut tight after Dean stumbled through it, but he hadn't really cared about getting back in. He had trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the prison, but the moment he had slowed down to get his bearings was the moment when he had tripped the snare.

Dean looked back toward the mountain. Getting to it was going to take time, and a lot of it with his bad knee. The island was nearly twelve miles in length and twenty-six miles across, so he was looking at a full day of traveling. And that was all assuming they didn't find him first. He was going to have to just avoid Dick, and while staying ahead wasn't much of a plan, well, his 'escape onto the island' really hadn't been one either.

_I'll just make it up as I go then, _Dean thought as he pushed off the tree trunk.

Climbing down the tree was as much fun as climbing the wire, knee and head not really up for the task. But he made his way down without slipping or his knee giving out, only then to run out of branches, finding himself with solid trunk only. He was still a good ten feet off the ground, and Dean braced himself before sliding off the branch.

It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, as far hitting the ground and falling right over into pine-needle strewn mud went. As his knee spasmed, he wheezed out a curse to keep himself from crying out in pain. Thankfully it faded quickly, but he still had to suck in several gulps of air before he could lift onto shaking arms.

He noticed his footprints and specks of blood on the ground, realizing that they were visible tracks and scents that could lead straight to him — something that he was going to have to worry about going forward. He would need to cover his tracks before he moved on too, and he made a mental note before looking around for his weapons.

His switchblade was a goner, but his stolen gun lay nearby. Dean prepared himself for the task of standing and retrieving it. He got to his knees, muttering under his breath, "On your feet, soldier, on your—"

It was then he saw the angel.


	2. Chapter 2

Unlike every other species, there was no mistaking an angel for human at first glance. (Or several glances, and sometimes flat-out staring depending on how dark the bar was and how much Dean had drank.) Demons could pass for human until one noticed their distinct smell, their extra long canines, or the way their eyes flicked black. It was similar with vampires, but the fangs, pointed ears, and cat-like eyes quickly gave them away, if they didn't flaunt that they were a different species all on their own. Even werewolves were often mistaken for really tall humans — after transformation, there was no questioning what a werewolf was — but big, pointed ears and spots on their fuzz-like fur were their markers.

Comparing _angels_ to the rest of them…

_There is no comparison_, Dean thought, lost in the blue eyes boring into his own. The sleek stance, the arch of wings over the shoulders, the otherworldly gaze that seemed to look straight through him — those were angelic hallmarks. They still gave Dean that awe-inspiring feeling too, the same one he had as a kid when he had been lucky enough to meet angels.

With unparalleled strength and agility, angels seemed to defy physics when they moved. They could streak through the air like missiles, and swoop and dive in ways that made fighter pilots jealous. Dean had seen a single angel, armed with only a sword, take down an entire platoon of soldiers and make it look effortless. That was how all angels were: fierce, absolute; as the joke went, the country of Jannah's "most terrifying weapon." No other species — vampire, werewolf, demon or human — would dare risk an angel's wrath.

Knowing that made it all the more painful when Dean took in the rest of the angel, and saw his fall from grace seared onto his body in blood and scars.

The angel was dangerously thin, his stomach sunken in, and ribs visible with each breath. His dirty overcoat was littered with holes, tears, and blood stains, swamping his frail form. Past the remains of trousers torn at his scraped knees, one leg was mottled with bruises in every color. The other leg fared no better, Dean realizing the series of half-circle imprints on his calf were _teeth marks._

Those weren't the angel's worst scars however; those were the ones that tore across his chest. They were nasty, ugly things: three large, white ridged lines that marred tanned skin from shoulder to stomach. What could have caused them, Dean didn't know. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know.

It was too much either way. He had to look away, tasting bile again when he swallowed.

From the moment he had stepped foot on the island, it had been one horrifying thing after another: Dick Roman, demons, trophy collections, underground prisons that were actually torture chambers. But _this?_ Dean hadn't even known angels could be hurt — that anything was fast enough to touch one if they didn't welcome the contact. What the hell had happened to this angel?

Dean clenched his hands against his thighs, the sudden urge for a stiff drink overpowering.

Did Dick do this? he wondered, a chill going down his spine. Did he do _this _to an angel_?_

When warm fingers pressed against his forehead and then slid into his hair, Dean looked back up in surprise. The angel tipped his head, gaze growing thoughtful, and it was to that look Dean wanted to confess everything to — the anger, the agony, the pain and, oh God, the _fear. What is this place? _he wanted to ask the angel. _Did he do this to you? Did he do this to my brother?_

But a movement in the angel's coat sleeve drew Dean's eye — that of a silver sword sliding into his hand. Dean frowned at it, and when the fingers tightened in his hair, he looked up again.

The angel's gaze had changed, pupils against cold blue slitted like a reptile's. Dean's breath caught in his throat, lost in those eyes again. Except there was nothing in them this time — nothing human anyway, and nothing angelic either. All Dean could see was a vast emptiness, an abyss that could and would swallow him whole.

Dean gazed into it and then, from the recesses of his mind and memory, he could hear Dick whisper to him.

_"There's no such thing as monsters, Dean."_

The rest of Dick's words were forgotten when the angel pressed his sword against his neck. That snapped Dean out of his haze, panic shooting through him.

The angel was going to kill him. _The angel was going to kill him._

Pure instinct fueled Dean's hard jab into one of the angel's abdomen. The angel hissed and recoiled, and Dean threw himself toward his gun lying close by. It was his only hope of protection, though the last thing Dean wanted to do was shoot and kill an angel. Why was the angel trying to kill him anyway?! Was he working for Dick too? But he couldn't be! An angel would never — unless he thought Dean was working for Dick, which was bad. Really, _really_ fucking bad.

Dean's fingers found the pistol, and he swung it around, hoping the angel would see it. If he could just explain—

The angel effortlessly kicked the gun out of his hand, his foot barely touching the ground before his other leg swung out. It hit Dean in the temple, sending the world into a wild spin as he crashed back to the ground.

Stunned, he lay there, vision going in and out again, hearing echoes of his father's voice. _Watch out for Sammy_, his dad was saying. Dean could almost see the old man himself, yelling over the sounds of nearby gunfire and explosions. _Dean, take your brother and go!_

"N-No," Dean slurred at the approaching blur glinting silver. He struggled back up, holding out a hand in weak defense as he shook his head. "N-No. M'not one of them, Angel. M'not one of them. Look at my eyes, look at my teeth."

The angel didn't listen, grabbing him by the jaw and roughly shoving his head back. "No, _don't,_" Dean hissed, trying to tug free, but the angel's grip was too strong. Panicking, he clawed at the angel's arm, pushing at the hand that held the sword to his neck. He couldn't die — he had to find Sam!

"No, no, I can help you, Angel," he babbled, not even really knowing what he was saying. "I can _save_ you."

The sword pressed into his neck and held there, blood trickling free. It seemed like an eternity of waiting for the inevitable before Dean heard the angel whisper, "Save me?"

Dean's heart leapt. The angel's voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in years, and maybe he hadn't. Dean didn't really care at the moment. For some reason, he had told the angel he could save him, and that was something he could work with!

"Yes, yes," he croaked out breathlessly. "I can. I have a boat coming. I can get you off this island."

"Save me," the angel repeated slowly. Dean's vision cleared enough to see his cocked head, his pupils still slitted. "You can... save me."

Dean went to nod, but that was hard to do so within the angel's painful grip. "Yeah," he pressed. "My friend, he knows I'm here. He's coming for me in three days."

The angel didn't have any reaction to that; in fact, Dean might as well have been speaking another language for how expressionless he was. But his fingers retreated slowly from Dean's jaw, and he pulled his sword away, taking a step back. If anyone asked, Dean would have denied the shuddering gasp he let out, or the way he crab-crawled backwards, dragging his bad knee with him. Once he was at what instinctively felt like a safe distance away, he slapped a hand to his neck to make sure it was still in one piece. It was, but his heart wouldn't stop pounding, and he could feel his hands shaking.

_One hit, _he thought. Black spots were filling his eyes again, bile burning up his throat. One hit, and he had been down for the count. He had been trained in self-defense and weaponry since he was a kid; he had been a soldier for almost eight years; hell, he had killed three demons in his escape onto the island! But one hit, and he had almost _died_, without even another chance to defend himself. And what if the angel _had_ killed him?

What would have happened to Sam?

Dean tensed when he heard the angel move. Half-blind as he was, there was no way he could see if the angel attacked him again. He blinked rapidly, hoping it'd clear his vision, and was eventually met with the sight of the angel standing in front of him. He was leaning forward slightly, head still cocked as he looked at him. He reminded Dean of a curious bird. "You have… a boat," the angel said then.

"Yeah," Dean replied slowly.

The angel just stared at him, and Dean frowned, unsure of what to make of it. He got that the angel was confused, but if it weren't for the other creature's tipped head, Dean would have had no clue. It was weird — from what Dean remembered of angels, they had been nonchalant to everything going around them, but they hadn't looked like this angel.

The angel's confusion itself was an unusual reaction too. Dean had been on rescue missions before, and most people had two reactions after they were found: relief or suspicion. The angel had neither, and the way he spoke… He wasn't asking actual questions. It was more like he was testing the words out, like he wasn't sure what they meant. Or, if he _was_ asking questions, he seemed to have forgotten vocal inflections. Dean didn't know what to make of it either way.

Weirdness aside, the angel no longer appeared hostile, so Dean went with it. If this was a rescue mission, how would he normally treat a situation like this? he asked himself.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he began, and paused. The angel had no change in expression, and Dean felt a brief flash of worry. "I'm have a boat coming to pick me up, in three days." When the angel still failed to respond, Dean added, "Do you understand?"

The angel continued to look at him, and then murmured, "You have a boat."

Dean swallowed, stomach sinking. That wasn't the response he wanted, and he wasn't entirely sure how to reply. But then the obvious hit him — maybe the angel didn't speak English.

Shit. At best, his Enochian was laughable. And he wasn't sure there was even a word for 'boat' in the language. "Uhh,_ zir dorphal _Dean Winchester_,_" he tried anyway, and, to his surprise, the angel reacted. His wings shuffled noisily against his back loudly as he leaned back up, head straightening out. It wasn't much of a response, but Dean was encouraged to go on. "Errm, _zirdo zacar nonca de_..."

As he tried to remember his next word, he found himself looking over the angel again. It was odd: How had Dick managed to snatch an angel up anyway? (And was _salman _the word he wanted?) Dick had vampires and werewolves and the like abducted indiscriminately as far as Dean could figure, but taking an angel had to have been far from easy.

Most of the time, no one ever saw angels. The majority of them were in the country of Jannah and, as Dean understood it, that place was a mountainous region that was almost impossible to traverse on foot or vehicle. The only angels outside of were in Jannah the American host, and they lived in a valley in Southern California that was off-limits to the public. Most angels never traveled outside of it, either.

Those that did, however, always had the paparazzi on them; in fact, that was how most people saw angels now. Magazines, newspapers, tabloids, those various "Angel Watch" TV shows (Dean was fond of the fashion one), as well as the occasional documentary, covered them all them. Some of angels were pretty famous too: Gabriel, the comedian and actor; Anna, an infamous computer genius that was rumored to be a member of WikiLeaks; Balthazar, curator-turned-art-critic-turned-wine-expert (or whatever he was now). And the most famous of all, of course, was—

"Son of a bitch," Dean blurted, jaw dropping. "It's you. I _know _you."

Dean could remember it all like it was _yesterday._ The headlines: _Mysterious Disappearance_; _Missing Angel;_ _No Leads; No Evidence Of Foul Play; New Searches Planned. _The nation gripped by the disappearance of its true American hero, with cable news shows discussing it for weeks on end, reporting any and all leads. There had been interview after interview with the angel's family; for a month straight, there had been weekly two-hour specials that went over every little clue. "What happened to the angel?" was all anyone had talked about wherever Dean went.

Dean had followed the story almost religiously: reading the papers, watching every news show and interview, throwing out theories to Sam… at least until his brother had looked up from whatever he had been working on to say, "Your angel fetish is showing, Dean."

But the story had died, too many months going by with no news, ransoms, or bodies. The world had moved on. Dean had forgotten too, and he was left wondering how long ago it had been. Six months? A year? Two years? Longer?

How _long_ had the angel been here?

"You know… me," the angel asked, in the same slow repetition. Dean almost barked out a laugh. It was such a silly question in hindsight — if the angel didn't look like death warmed over, Dean would have known him anywhere.

"You're _Castiel,_" he said breathlessly, grinning ear-to-ear. The angel's eyes went wide. "You were one of the leaders of the fourth Avavago garrison in the American host. You won the Battle of Colt's Gate. You pretty much ended the Azazel Uprisings. You basically won the — whoa, Angel, _whoa_."

If seeing an angel scarred and bloody was bad, watching childhood heroes fall apart was far, far worse. Castiel swayed like Dean had gone for the stomach again, his sword falling from his hand. It was without thinking that Dean stumbled to his feet, his knee almost giving out on him as he went over to Castiel's side.

The angel was breathing hard, dingy dark gray wings trembling against his back as his chest heaved. He was having some sort of panic attack, Dean thought — and it was really _not_ comforting to know angels could even have panic attacks to begin with — but at least Dean knew what to do in these situations. Well, sort of: normally, he'd use a person's name to help calm them, but he wasn't sure how that'd go down. He had said Castiel's name and look what happened! (Were you even allowed to call angels by their name to their face? He couldn't remember.)

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's okay," he soothed, holding out his hands in case the angel collapsed. "It's okay. Breathe, uh, Angel, _breathe_. You're okay; it's okay. Just breathe, just breathe."

Castiel didn't seem to hear him, even as his gaze jerked up to meet Dean's. His pupils had returned to normal, and this time Dean could read the panic in his eyes. "That's my name," he croaked out between pants. His voice was still gruff as all hell, but there was definite inflection now. "You know my name. How do you know my name?"

Now Dean was lost — _how did he did he know Castiel's name?_ Was that a trick question? "You're the hero of the Azazel Uprisings — _everyone_ knows who you are," he said. At Castiel's blank look, and after his initial panic of _that can't be good _and _Do I have the right angel, _Dean went for a different tactic. "You went missing. Everyone was looking for you. But no one knew you were _here_. No one knew this place even existed."

Castiel stared at him, like he didn't know what Dean was, let alone what he was saying. "But... you know?" he asked after a few wordless bobs of his mouth. His brow furrowed, and he seemed to be struggling with his words as he asked, "You weren't... Released?"

_Released like animals_, Dean thought. One of the demons had said that to him. But he understood Castiel's confusion. "No, I came here. I snuck onto the island," he explained. Castiel's brown furrowed more, so Dean explained. "I'm looking for my brother. He's here, somewhere. I'm trying to find him."

The angel glanced away. He seemed to processing that, his eyes flickering from side-to-side in clear thought. Dean's heart started to pound then. There were so many ways the angel could respond, but Dean hoped for only one response…

The angel looked back at him and murmured, "Your brother?"

Dean's heart sank; he had hoped for more. "Yeah, my brother, Sam," he managed, then faltered as his throat tightened. He suddenly feared to ask the obvious follow-up question: _have you seen him? _Would Castiel even say if he had? And how did he reply to the angel now?

Surprisingly, the words slipped out of Dean's mouth before he even really thought them over.

"He was taken. He was taken because he found out about this island." As the angel stared at him, Dean clenched his hands into fists at his side.

_And I knew he was going to be taken too, _he thought darkly.


	3. Chapter 3

_My brother was taken_.

It felt good to say that out loud, Dean thought. It felt good to say it without immediately being met with skepticism, too. Where he wasn't then asked uncomfortable-to-think-about questions like _has Sam had any change in behavior_; _any troubles in his marriage; any reason he'd leave_. Where Jess didn't start to look pale, before she ended up admitting that Sam had been distant and distracted lately because of work. Where words like _Flagstaff _and _Stanford_ weren't thrown back into Dean's face to question his brother's character. Where his word didn't have any weight — _his_ word about _his_ brother he had pretty much raised since he was in diapers! — when he said, "Sam would _never_ leave his wife and children."

The feeling was short-lived, however. There was only so much comfort Dean could take in having been right, especially after learning his brother's fate. And it wasn't like he deserved comfort anyway, not when he had known something was wrong the moment Sam had turned to him and said, "Promise me."

In the end, Dean was left feeling nauseated as he looked at Castiel, a living example of what might have become of his brother. The feeling only grew worse for far different reasons when Castiel asked, "Your brother found out about this island?"

The angel's scars, wounds, and panic attacks were too goddamn much on their own; Dean didn't know what to do with the utterly lost look that Castiel gave him. Part of him just wanted to sit the angel down and keep encouraging him to relax and take deep breaths; another part kept reminding him that this was an _angel. _And not just any angel — this was _Castiel, _a living legend that Dean knew everything about.

He was already considered one of history's great military strategists, up there with Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Napoleon. His war record was filled with victory after victory — Samhein's Peak; the Union, Kentucky siege; the assault at Stull Cemetery, and the most famous of all, the Battle of Colt's Gate. With a strategic offensive the demons never saw coming, Castiel had ended the Azazel Uprisings, an eight-year-long war, in less than six months.

For Dean, however, Castiel was more than just the nation's hero. He _knew_ Castiel. He had met him during Colt's Gate. It was the one crystal-clear memory of a battle that was otherwise one long blur: the endless bombings; running out of medical supplies and rations; demons breaking the lines and swarming the base; taking Sam and running for their lives. But there was also the moment in the forest, with gunfire in the distance and Sammy clinging to his side, when Dean had looked up into the blue eyes of an angel and known one thing: _They were saved._

But the memory of his hero — of kind eyes and great black wings, a warm smile and a promise that everything would be alright now — clashed with reality. Dean's stomach twisted, the things he had always wanted to say to him dying on his tongue. _We met when I was 13, do you remember? You saved my brother. You saved me._

"Y-Yeah," he found himself saying instead. _Sam_, he thought. It was easier to think about Sam and what happened to him. Besides, talking was good too. _Reassure and establish communication_ — that had been drilled into him as much as his dad's _stay focused and assess the situation_. It could help with the angel's confusion, and maybe even calm him down too.

Dean hoped it would anyway.

"My brother… he was looking into the people that disappeared. He realized that they were being abducted," Dean explained, Castiel's eyes following his hands when he gestured with them without thinking. His expressionless face returned, but Dean sensed he had the angel's full attention when blue eyes met his again.

It was a start, but it wasn't particularly easy for Dean to take everything he knew and shave it down to the bare bones. Leading with _My brother is an assistant district attorney with the city of New York_, seemed too much in the detail department, so he had skipped that, but the rest? The international humanoid trafficking ring Dick ran through a series of fake companies? That creepy-ass town he shipped cargo containers of abducted people to, before he had them moved out to the island off its coast? No, probably best to keep it simple. "I think Sam found a common link between the abductions, and found out they were being brought here. I don't think he knew what was happening to them, but—"

Dean faltered then. What if Sam _had _known? he wondered. Sam had built his case against Dick for almost two years, so there was no telling how much he knew. Dean had only fragments of Sam's research and his own memories to go on, and had worked from there. Sam at least knew what Dick was capable of from the onset, but he had suspected the hunting people part — the hunting _angels_ part — and still hadn't said anything...

_Promise me, _Sam whispered in the back of his mind, and Dean felt his anger spark even as his stomach sank. "Sam was taken because of what he found out," he growled, fist clenching at his side. "By the man that runs this place: Dick Roman."

He practically spat out the name, but his anger turned to surprise when Castiel let out a sudden sound. Dean looked back at him, watching in wonder as the angel's eyes slitted again, the feathers on his wings bristling. "The monster," he hissed through bared teeth.

Dean frowned.

_Monster?_

"Is that… Is that what you call him?" he asked, curious. Castiel's eyes flicked over him twice before he gave the tiniest of the nods. Dean almost laughed out loud at the coincidence.

He had called Dick the exact same thing, and what had the asshole replied with? _There was no such thing as monsters?_ Well, now Dean knew an _angel_ that agreed with him, and not just any angel! Castiel! That was like a double endorsement, so Dick could _suck_ it—

The laugh never left his lips, cheer dying as quickly as it had arrived. He looked at Castiel again, this time really taking in his too-wide eyes and too-tense body. He was breathing rapidly again, and it looked like any sound might send him into the air. He was _afraid_, Dean realized, chills going down his spine. The Hero of the Azazel Uprisings, who had faced down the armies of Azazel and Lilith, was _afraid. _

It was such a stupid thought to have, especially when Castiel had already had a panic attack on him. Yet, like the angel's scars and wounds, it was a sharp reminder of who exactly Dean was dealing with. Dick was no longer just the man who ran a trafficking ring, owned a secret island, and had made Sam's disappearance look like his brother had left on his own. Dick was also a man who had abducted the single most famous angel in the world next to their god, Michael, without anyone figuring out how, and then left that angel scarred and _scared _of him. Dean hadn't even known angels could even _feel _fear.

Dean had to look away from him again, stomach twisting violently. It was ironic — only a few hours ago, he had been absolutely convinced he knew everything there was to know about Dick. Now that thought almost made him want to laugh out loud again, but for entirely different reasons this time. The joke was on him, wasn't it? Maybe there was no such things as monsters, but there was such a thing as Dick Roman. And he was far scarier.

Castiel suddenly shifted on his feet, head darting to one side. Dean jumped at the movement despite himself, but he also followed his gaze without thinking. There was nothing but fog and trees around them, but out in the distance, he could _hear _something. It was indistinct and faint, trailing off as quickly as it started. Still, Dean recognized the sounds of shouting, and immediately noticed what direction it had come from.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed. It had came from Dick's underground prison. Someone had found the demons he had killed then. They knew he had escaped. Would they come after him? Dean's mind raced, panic making his stomach twist around and around. What if they found him before he could get to Sam and then out to the extraction point? He couldn't let that happen. He had to get Sam _off_ this island. But what if he couldn't? What if—

No. Dean stopped that train of thought, and took a deep breath. He had to keep calm. He had to assess the situation. He had come to this island for a reason: to find definitive, indisputable proof that Dick Roman was the one behind hundreds of abductions. He had to get that proof to the proper authorities so they could _stop_ Dick, and prevent more people from being taken. His original plan to get that information out had failed miserably, but that was why he had made up back-up plans. And, like any good soldier or medic, he knew how to make use of his resources he had to get the job done.

What did he have? Bobby coming in a boat to pick him up. And what else did he have?

Dean looked back at Castiel, the angel meeting his gaze and then tilting his head curiously.

He had an angel, and not just any angel: the hero of the Azazel Uprisings, the missing angel, _Castiel. _

Whatever Dean could have found was _nothing_ compared to the irrefutable proof that Castiel was. People would revolt if Dick's head wasn't on a pike for what he had done to him, and that wasn't even taking into account the angel's kin, the hosts of America, and Jannah. They probably wouldn't care about authorities or due process — they would rain down their wrath on this whole fucking island, and there was no way Dick or his demons could escape _that_.

It was strategic too: if Dean couldn't get to Sam in time for extraction, they could just lie low until rescue came. And, if Dean got killed before then, rescue would still come. Sam would still get home, and so would Castiel — and what more could Dean ask for? He had told Castiel he could save him, right? For once, that was a promise he could keep, and it was one he had to keep, too. A long time ago, Castiel had saved him and his brother. Time to return the favor.

"Angel," he said breathlessly, taking a step toward him. Castiel tensed again, but it seemed more out of surprise than reacting to a threat. "You gotta' get to my boat. It's coming in—" Dean had to checked his watch to make sure. "In three days, right after sunset. It'll pull into the bay on the southwest side of the island. The bay's a half-moon shape, with several rocky outcroppings in the water. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

It took a long moment for Castiel to answer, and Dean felt another flash of worry that faded when the angel finally gave another small nod. "Awesome. Now, my friend, Bobby Singer, he's the one coming. He wears a trucker hat and says 'balls' a lot, you can't miss him. You tell him Dean Winchester sent you, alright? Tell him that getting you off this island is the prime directive, with or without me. Got it?"

Instead of replying, Castiel stared at him like he had grown a second head. Dean felt his worry from before returning again. _What if this plan goes south, _a dark part of him thought, _because of him? Because he might not be all_—

Castiel gave the shortest bob of his head then, enough that Dean could breathe another sigh of relief. He could trust Castiel with this, he reassured himself. He really had no choice, but, aside from his confusion, Castiel hadn't given him any reason to believe he couldn't. He wanted to know how Dean could save him, right? He had to know this was how Dean was doing it. And there wasn't anything to say Dean wouldn't make it in time for extraction — he had three days to get Sam to that boat, after all. He had time; he just had to find his brother…

Dean hesitated then, looking back to Castiel. Despite his renewed optimism, it wasn't any easier to ask what he needed to ask. "You, uhh… You haven't seen him, have you?" he asked, making gestures with his hands as he described his brother. "Sam's around six-six, brown hair, same eyes, last seen wearing a suit? I think he's been here around six months?"

Castiel's eyes had followed Dean's hands, and then fell back to him. Like before, Dean baited his breath as he waited for him to reply, his heart sinking once again when Castiel finally shook his head.

Dean winced but pushed his worry aside. No news was good news, right? He was going to stick with that. Sam had to be alive — he _had _to be. And Dean was getting him home.

They both looked over when they heard another far-off yell. It didn't sound like it was getting any closer, but Dean didn't want to stick around to find out. "Alright, you'd better go," he told Castiel, but the angel didn't move, his lost expression back when he turned to him. Dean felt another uncomfortable twinge, and he forced a quick smile. "Go, Angel. Get to the bay. Wait for Bobby. Right after sunset on the third day, remember."

It took Castiel a moment, but something seemed to click, as he began to back up slowly. He paused to retrieve his sword from the ground, and then looked at Dean again, several emotions in his eyes that Dean couldn't name. But before he could decipher any of them, the angel was gone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.

Dean let out a breath after he was gone. The past twenty-four hours flashed back in his mind — sneaking onto the island, finding out Sam might be alive, escaping Dick's prison, running into Castiel — and Dean's head hurt just thinking about it. His knee joined in with the pain, throbbing in tandem, but it was manageable. When he looked out at the forest, he felt hope for the first time in six months — and that was worth any injury.

"I'm coming, Sammy," he promised, and set off.


	4. Chapter 4

When Dean had first learned about the island, it was nothing more than a pinned point on a map Sam had on his office wall. That was one part of a space filled with newspaper clippings, several shipping manifestos, random missing person reports, and a half-dozen note cards with company names scribbled on them. Dean just couldn't make heads-or-tails of any of it — how was an island off the coast of Alaska connected to Russian vampire nest disappearances and a company called SparkCo Natural Resources anyway? — and he didn't have a chance to snoop and figure it out either. Sam had returned to his office then, sounding like a squeaky 13-year-old again when he snapped, "This is _private, _Dean!" and shoved him out the door.

That memory resurfaced not long after Dean had realized it was Dick Roman who'd taken Sam. With nothing else to go on — all of Sam's notes, maps and research Dean knew existed (he had seen them!) had disappeared just like his brother — he had started digging into it. If some random island held clues, he had been determined to track them down.

Little did he know how deep that rabbit hole went.

Dean had never imagined being _on _the island, however. Knowing its history and memorizing its maps certainly hadn't prepared him for the rough terrain, the heavy vegetation, or the biting cold. The island's forests were old: tall, thick cedar and pine trees with branches weighed down by snow, roots hidden under a sea of ferns; thickets and bushes filling the space between trees; logs and large moss-covered rocks littering the ground. If there had been any trails to follow, they were now lost; any landmarks were covered in a fog so thick that Dean could barely see more than twenty feet in front of him at times.

It was eerily quiet too, something he noticed whenever he paused to rest his knee, or checked his watch's compass for due south toward the mountain. Even the crunch of snow and pine needles under his feet was lost in the overwhelming silence. If it wasn't for the sound of his own ragged breathing, Dean would have thought he had gone deaf.

It was unsettling, a feeling that wasn't welcome when he was already nervous about setting off another trap, or running into Dick or his demons. He wondered if it was just him, or if this was how Sam, and even Castiel, had felt about the island too. Not that Dean could really imagine what they, or any of the abducted people, had gone through. Being snatched from family and home, stuffed into a cargo crate, shipped halfway across the world, locked away in a prison run by _demons_ — that was like a nightmare Dean never wanted to have.

But to then be let go onto this island… It must have been like entering another world. It had that kind of feel to it all on its own, and maybe it was. _A psychopath's world, _Dean thought sarcastically as he limped up a hill.

_How_ that world worked though, he was still trying to figure out.

Dick ran a global empire of Fortune 500 companies, so Dean figured he wasn't at the island all that often to indulge in his serial killer ways. People were still brought here even when he wasn't around however (based off everything he knew, Dean figured they came in every few months), but then what? They were kept in the prison the demons had called the "holding facility" for some time but, as one of the demons had told him, they were released eventually. If Dick was absent, and if Castiel was any indication, would they just _live_ on the island?

_No,_ Dean realized. _A lot _of people would have died long before Dick got around to hunting them. Starvation, dehydration, exposure, injuries, and illness were very real killers, and for anyone who didn't have a lick of survival skills, they probably didn't have much of a chance. Still, it didn't make sense. While Dean really didn't want to question the logic of a mass murderer, why did Dick go through all the trouble of abducting people to hunt if he was just going to let most of them die anyway?

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered under his breath then, pausing in his tracks. _That was the point, wasn't it? _Dick had told him that he only hunted the best, that he wanted the challenge that came from it. Dean had seen what remained of the victims, and that had been at least three hundred people. Those had to be the ones that were strong enough to survive on the island… but out of those three hundred, how many _hadn't_ survived?

That thought made his stomach drop, the implications of it almost _too much_. And with that thought came other awful ones.

Had Sammy been one of those three hundred? Or had he been one of those who weren't strong enough…?

_No, no. _Dean shook his head, shoving those thoughts away. _Sam is alive_, he berated himself as he started walking again, angry at his own doubt and fears. Sam was alive, and his brother was the one who had effectively put a stop to this place. Who knew how many more people would have lived and died here if Sam hadn't learned about this place. And there was something Dean couldn't wrap his mind around! How had no one had figured out what was happening here besides his brother?

He understood not connecting random disappearances with a trafficking ring, but by the time they got to the little town off the island's coast? Why had no one there had never reported anything suspicious, like how demons were the ones picking up shipments and then taking them out to an island that was supposedly uninhabited? Not that every town didn't have their resident pack of demons, but when they were doing something out of the norm, you were _supposed_ to report them.

That thought brought up something else Dean couldn't figure out: If people lived on this island, how come no one had ever escaped? He had already came up with at least one way that it could be done, simply by going out the same way he had come in. The demons docked their boat on in a small harbor of the secondary island right off the coast, and since they regularly went to the mainland to pick up supplies or shipments, Dean would have taken advantage of that just like he had when he had came to the island.

All someone had to do was sneak onto the other island, and hide on that boat… Unless the demons expected that, and checked for it.

Dean grunted in annoyance. Okay, so maybe there were holes in that plan, but there had to be a way off the island somehow: smoke signals, message in a bottle, building a canoe, _something_. And what about Castiel? How come he hadn't escaped? If he couldn't slaughter his way to the boat, couldn't the angel have just flown away?

Unless the demons expected that too, and that was a chilling thought.

_What if there is no way _to _escape? _Dean wondered then, remembering how Castiel had reacted to what he had said.

_I can save you, _Dean had told him.

Those must have been words the angel had wanted to hear for more than two years.

That was an awful thought, even worse than seeing Castiel bruised and battered. And it just escalated from there.

How many people had lived here? Dean wondered, the chill going down his spine only growing colder. How many people had _died_ here? There was no way of really knowing, but the sheer scope and size of Dick's operation was ballooning to epic proportions the more information he gathered. Hundreds of people? Dick had owned this island since the '80s, though. _Thousands _of people?

And for those that there were strong enough to survive, it would have had to be hell. A constant struggle to find food, water, and shelter, all before they had to avoid the guy shooting at them. If they had no hope of escape…

Dean cursed again, running a hand down his face and then shaking his head again. All those people … At some point, all the people must have realized there was no escape, no hope of rescue. And _that _feeling, that utterly helpless, hopeless feeling — Dean knew what it was like: remembered it from Colt's Gate; when Sam had disappeared. No deserved that feeling, not his brother, and certainly not a hero like Castiel. It was just as deadly as a murderer with a gun, but Dean wasn't sure which was worse death.

Well, as long as they didn't know what Dick did with their bodies. Dean couldn't think of anything that was gut-wrenchingly and demoralizing — and he didn't want to think about it either if he could help it. Not if he wanted to remain hopeful himself.

There was some things best left to his nightmares anyway, and this island was promising to give him plenty of those already.

* * *

Hours passed. The fog faded enough to reveal gray sky, the sun a dull, white circle behind the cloud cover. The ground grew steadily steeper the further Dean went, and it began to take its toll after a while. His knee _ached, _and blisters were forming on feet no longer used to marching on patrols. He was soaked in sweat too, a cold wind from the north making him shiver violently whenever it caught on his damp clothing. His mouth had gone dry about an hour in, he had a pounding headache, and his stomach grumbled away, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since that mooseburger a day before.

Still, there were some positives. For one, he hadn't seen hair or hide of Dick and his demons. He was making good time too, even with his bad knee, and he had started to remember stuff Bobby had taught Sam and him when they were kids.

Bobby had wanted them to know how to hunt, fish and set up camp, but also be able figure out who lived where in any given place. "That way, you won't accidentally walk right into a vampire nest or werewolf den," he had joked at the time, though the chances of that were pretty slim even back then — most werewolves or vampires lived in houses of their own now, unlike when Bobby was a kid.

On the island, however, Dean wondered if people would fall back on their old ways to help them survive. For once, all that stuff Bobby had taught him would come in handy.

Dean went over what he knew: Werewolves — who had never really lost their instincts — were territorial, and transformed or not, they would leave claw marks on some sort of surface to show what was theirs. In a forest like this, that would be trees, somewhere near an open field or a water source. They often lived within range of humans or vampires, which, as long as the werewolves stayed away from the nest, the vampires never seemed to mind.

That wasn't the case with humans. While humans and vampires more or less got along nowadays, a human going into a vampire's territory was just pushing their luck. Dean kind of couldn't blame the vamps — back in the day, any human in their territory was either there on accident, or was a Hunter (and it was usually the latter more than the former). Still, the Hunter program had died out more than fifty years ago, and humans had been doing their best to make up for their past mistakes. Dean wished the vampires would let bygones be bygones.

_That_ was a long time coming, and until then it was just best to avoid vampires if you could help it. On this island however, it would actually be good to break that rule, if there were vampires here. Dean wasn't sure where a nest would be exactly, but vampires would want somewhere dark, downwind, and out-of-sight. Possibly a cave, or maybe a dense thicket of trees, near wherever a werewolf lived if there were any on the island. Dean would know when he found it either way, when he got close enough and caught a whiff of that metallic scent that all vampires had. It smelled like blood, which was no surprise when that was what they ate.

Dean kept those clues in mind as he hiked along. He didn't know if there were other people on the island — in hindsight, he probably should have asked Castiel (but, to be fair, he _did_ have other things on his mind) — and when his priority was finding Sam, he wasn't going to actively seek them out. If he saw signs of them however, he wanted to make a mental note for later search-and-rescue teams. What Bobby had taught him wasn't common knowledge anymore, and Dean knew the process would go faster if he could provide rescuers with that info.

Not that he was seeing any evidence of other people, but Dean wasn't surprised about that since he was in an open forest. (Someone as big as a werewolf or vampire wouldn't be able to hide well in a forest.) As he went further along however, the lack of signs began to bother him, though he wasn't sure why at first. He didn't expect to see anyone or anything, and he _wasn't. _

So why did that feel so wrong?

He was focused so hard on figuring out what was missing that the sound of trickling water caught him by surprise. It was the first noise he had heard in hours, and all he could do was stare in the direction it was coming from before the sound properly registered in his brain.

_Water_, his mind bellowed then, and Dean forgot everything else as he followed the sound to its source, hobbling through a thicket of leafless trees and over a half-frozen log. His mouth seemed to grow dryer and dryer with every step he took, and it was positively raw by the time he found the small pool. His feet sank in the mud and dead leaves circling the pond, making him stumble a bit as he made his way to the water.

Dean couldn't bend his knee well, so he got as close as he could to the stream that fed the small pond. He cupped his hands under it, hissing at the cold; it was a small discomfort however, when the water pooled in his hands looked as inviting as a bottle of brandy. He was probably going to drink as much of it too. "Please don't make me sick," he pleaded to the water, before bringing his hands to his lips.

It was the best damn water he ever had, Dean drinking until his sides ached along with his knee. _Totally worth it, _he decided when it helped ease his headache, his body relaxing in a way it hadn't since he stepped foot on the island. It made him want to sit down for a bit and rest, his feet sliding in the mud again as he went to sit on a nearby rock.

As he made a mental note to clean up the footprints before he left, that was when it hit him why the lack of signs in the forest were so wrong.

_Footprints_.

There were no footprints.

It was more that that, too. Dean did a quick survey of the trees and foliage around him, which confirmed his suspicions: There were no broken tree branches, half-eaten shrubs, dug-up roots, burrows, droppings, pawprints… Nothing that would be typical in a forest like this. He hadn't been seeing anything like it at all, and he wasn't seeing anything _here_, at a watering hole that would have the sure-fire place to find all those things.

Dean's eyes slowly lifted back up to the forest as he was confronted with a very disturbing thought.

Where were all the animals?

There _had_ to be some: Rabbits, foxes, raccoons, beavers, squirrels, lizards, frogs, birds, _something. _Dean hadn't been hunting in years, but he didn't think he was _that _out of practice to miss the obvious signs. Except he wasn't seeing any, and now that he thought about it, he hadn't _heard_ any animals either — not a chrip, chitter or ribbet, or the sounds of something running or flying for cover. But that was impossible: While he didn't know if the island was large enough to support bigger animals, there_ had_ to be the smaller ones. Even Dick and the demons had said there were animals on the island, so where were they?

Dean tensed then. They had said there were animals, but had they meant _animal_ animals or...

He felt another chill go down his spine. And, as much as he didn't want to, he found himself thinking back to early that morning, to when he had first arrived. Right when he snuck off the boat, avoiding the demons (though he hadn't known that was what they were at the time) unloading supplies as he had made his way up the docks to the lodge that he had known belonged to Dick Roman.

It had been so easy to infiltrate the island; even easier to get into the lodge. Dean had moved unnoticed passing several buildings that on a first glance through their windows seemed to contain barrack style furnishings. The lodge had been right after that, the back door left wide open to receive the shipments. Dean had slipped right in without a sound, making his way past the kitchens, where a chef was working with a large slab of meat and what smelled like garlic sauce, and then into the main part of the lodge. Dean had slid his gun out from the back of his waistband, holding it loosely in his hand as he began his search.

The lodge had been massive, Dean passing a lounge, the dining room, a ballroom. Up a set of stairs were the bedrooms, Dean carefully opening each door to peer inside. They were mostly empty, large beds set up so they faced the view of the ocean or island through large bay windows. None contained Dick or a computer he could hack into however, so Dean had moved on.

He checked a few more rooms before he came to set of double doors that opened up to a large office. There had been nothing much to it at first glance: bay windows looking out island; a large mahogany desk perpendicular to a wall with a television on it; sofa chairs facing a fireplace where embers glowed red.

The computer monitor on the desk had drawn Dean's attention, and he closed the door quietly behind him. As he had headed over to the desk, the odd shapes behind the gleam of the glass shelves caught his eye. Curious, he had retrieved a small flashlight from his jacket, clicking it on and lifting it up.

What he had seen would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Seven Hours Ago**

* * *

"Look at them all," Bobby had murmured the first time Dean had showed him all the missing persons reports he had gathered, some from memory, some that fit the same pattern of disappearances as the others. It was what had convinced Bobby that Dean was on to something — and that he had been right about Sam's own disappearance, too. The reports had filled an entire wall, Bobby's mouth hanging open as his eyes traveled from face-to-face. Then, he had asked a question Dean had no answer to.

"What's he even doin' with them?"

If Dean was honest, he hadn't thought much about the other victims. Not beyond names, and faces; certainly not of their families, or their fates. It wasn't that he didn't care — he just _couldn't_; if he did, he knew he would just see Sam in every one of them, and he'd fall apart. All Dean could do for them, for their families, was to finish what his brother had started. Stopping Dick Roman meant stopping the abductions, and stopping anyone else from suffering the same fate. _Afterward_, Dean had thought. He would think about them afterward, after he figured out what happened to Sam.

Standing in Dick's den, however, Dean was thinking about all those people.

He had no choice when he was looking at what was left of them.

There was a fully transformed werewolf pelt rug on the floor next to the fire, its mouth agape in a fearsome roar that didn't reach its dead eyes. It wasn't the only werewolf in the room, let alone the only person, the room filled with the heads of almost two dozen vampire and werewolf heads mounted on plaques. Their mouths were open, the needle-like teeth of the vampires on full display, manes of hair They decorated the wall above the fireplace mantle, and over a cabinet filled with several rifles — every free space that wasn't the far back wall.

That was where two large glass cabinets were both taking up the entire length of the wall. Inside, on shelf after shelf, were white skulls in the _hundreds. _They came in every species (and there were even some Dean didn't recognize), their skeletal grins almost manic.

The eyes the were the worst part though. They all seemed to be looking at him — the glassy ones of the vampires and the werewolves; the empty sockets of the skulls — looking _through_ him, mouths immobile as they whispered faintly in Sam's voice, _Promise me, Dean._

Bile burned up his throat, his vision blurring out. _What had Dick done to these people? _he thought frantically. _What had he done to Sam?_

"Susan, I was unaware we had a morning meeting with the eldest Winchester. Did he have an appointment scheduled?"

Dean's body moved without thinking, his gun on the person before they even finished speaking. When he realized who it was, however, his breath caught in his throat, mind screeching to a halt. The man before him didn't even glance at the weapon pointed at him, merely revealed too-white teeth in a grin when the woman next to him gave a negative in reply. Dean didn't hear whatever else she said, heart pounding too loudly in his ears.

There he was: _Richard "Dick" Roman_. One of the most powerful men in the world, with a global empire that was a leader in weapons, technology and agriculture. Dean had learned everything he could about the man: watched his motivational speeches, gone over every article on his Fortune 500 companies, read his speeches for the NRA. The media was always speculating that he would run for president, even though whenever asked, the man simply promoted his best-selling book (which Dean had also read).

Despite Dick's reputation, there were still many strange rumors and conspiracy theories surrounding the man. It took some digging to find, and a lot of it was fringe stuff, like that video that tried to prove Dick was a lizard person seeking world domination. (And for some reason was titled _The Rise of Dick_). The other stuff, though — links to organized crime; war profiteering; those shell companies that shipped unlabeled cargo to unknown destinations — that had helped Dean understand why Sam had been looking into him.

It was almost surreal to see Dick in the flesh, however, even after he haunted Dean's days and nightmares for so long. Though he had replaced his suit-and-tie getup for a simple sweater, ascot and gray trousers, Dick still had the same grin, the same dark glint to his eyes. His nostrils flared then, grin showing off more teeth until it reminded Dean of a shark's. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to flee, as if that grin would suddenly reveal sharp teeth that could rip him apart.

"Well, it's as I always say, Susan," Dick drawled, eyes never leaving Dean's. "There are three things that make a successful company: honesty, integrity, and spontaneity. Let's find out what Mr. Winchester has to propose in the latter, shall we?"

He gestured to the sofa chairs in front of the fireplace. "Dean, correct? Have a seat."

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of Dean's eye, and he swiftly turned to meet it. That was a mistake, the person simply sidestepping and snatching his wrist and gun with their hands. Both were twisted violently to the side, Dean's cry of pain cut off when the person slammed their foot right into his knee. Fire streaked up and down his leg, agony blinding him as he was grabbed and shoved against a wall.

His gun was seized from his limp grim, hands rapidly patting down his body. Dean's vision cleared enough that he caught a glimpse of black eyes and long, pointed canines over his shoulder. The person shoved Dean harder against the surface when his knee suddenly gave out, yelling at him, "Keep your hands on the wall, meatbag!"

_Demons, _Dean realized, blood running cold. Several of them if all the movement in his peripheral vision was correct. They stripped him of his knives, lock-picking kit, disposable cell, and the USBs he had brought to use to hack into Dick's computers. Dean had a half-second to realize they missed the switchblade in his boot, before he was declared clean, and dragged off the wall. Dean could barely put any weight on his leg, knee screaming in pain when they tossed him into the chair.

Through blurry eyes, he could see the demons in the room, six of them in total. They were in identical black uniforms, two keeping their handguns on him; another two standing behind his chair to pin him with hands on his shoulders. Another turned on the lights before she moved over to work on the fireplace, while the other carefully bagged Dean's things.

"Susan, field Mr. Winchester's calls for him, would you?" Dick said as he had walked into Dean's line of sight, moving toward a small table underneath the television on the wall. "Get their information, and assure them that we'll get right back to them."

"Yes sir," the woman in question said with a dark smirk, taking Dean's things before she left the room. Dean swallowed, knowing Bobby wouldn't call him — the phone had been to contact the police if he found any incriminating evidence, or got into trouble. With his phone went his weapons, however, which would only make it more difficult to fight his way out. It would help if the demons weren't armed, and if he wasn't injured, too...

All plans of escape halted when Dean accidentally glanced over at the skulls again. He felt his first trickle of fear, and had to look away as his thoughts betrayed him. _What if he couldn't escape? _

"Drink, Dean?" Dick asked from his small table, Dean looking over and seeing the glasses of alcohol he had poured. When Dick saw his incredulous look, the man smirked. "Now Dean, one has to be civil with their guests, even the uninvited ones. How's the knee, by the way?"

It hurt like hell, but Dean wasn't about to admit either or. "Civil?" he croaked instead, trying his best not to look at anything beside Dick and the demons. Dick lifted his eyebrows as he came up to sit opposite of Dean, drinks in hand. "I find it's hard to be civil when you're workin' with demons."

He probably deserved the sharp nails that one of the demons dug into his shoulder for that. The pain focused him, however, which was what he needed. If he didn't focus, he was going to look over at the remains of the people again, and that'd only be counter-productive to keeping calm. Dick's offered drink would help with that too; there was nothing quite like the burn of alcohol down the throat, and Dean already knew he was going to be needing that feeling a lot going forward.

If he survived this, of course.

"Working with? Hardly," Dick said as he crossed his legs at the knee and took a sip from his drink. "Keep on the payroll, however? That's just good business. It promotes a good, humanitarian image for the company if you hire daemons. And with the tax breaks, they practically pay for themselves."

Dick laughed, but only one demon reacted noticeably, his grin revealing sharp canines. The demon across from him tightened her grip on her pistol, but gave nothing else away.

Dean felt a chill go down his spine, glancing back at Dick. Not many demons Dean had met wouldn't react negatively to that kind of backhanded insult; they were either well-trained not to, or afraid to. Demons were scared of few things (angels on top of that list), and they didn't like being under another species' beck and call. Dean wasn't sure which worried him more: that Dick had them under his thumb or, worse, they were _scared_ of him.

"Of course, that isn't what we're here to discuss, is it, Dean?" Dick asked, legs uncrossing when he sat forward. He thumb traced the rim of his glass, nostrils flaring again as he seemed to study Dean. "Now, I know your brother wouldn't have made the mistake of telling anyone about my little operation here. So, Dean, where did you come from?"

At the very mention of Sam, Dean forgot his pain, fear, and everything else. "You took my brother," he hissed, fists clenching against his knees.

"Did I?" Dick smirked, his eyes narrowing. "I'm sure that's debatable, but that doesn't answer my question, Dean."

"You really think someone else couldn't put two-and-two together and figure out what you were doing?" Dean snapped, but frowned when Dick chuckled, sitting back in his chair again.

"Few people have, Dean, and I always make the point of knowing exactly who they are," he replied, and then revealed his teeth again when he grinned. "I hate to have my little forays making the papers, so I like to meet with them. Give them a chance to come around to _my_ way of thinking."

Dean tensed. Was that what happened to Sam? he wondered, his eyes darting over to the walls and glass cabinets at the thought. Dick noticed, Dean glancing back when he let out a happy sound, and rose from the chair.

"Impressive collection, isn't it?" he asked, waving his free hand toward the cabinets. He looked back at Dean with another smirk, the light from the fireplace casting half his face in shadows. "I know, I know, an all-American man like you, Dean, vinyl and flannel shirt collections are all you appreciate. But rare will you find a collection so complete. Nearly twelve of the fifteen humanoid species represented, including a few ones you won't see anywhere else. It's taken me years to collect them all — a man like me only appreciates the best specimens, and those are so hard to find these days. It's why I invested in the facility here, to create the best."

Dean frowned, confused. _Create_ _the best? _What the hell did that mean?

Dick gestured with his glass toward the werewolf pelt on the floor, Dean swallowing around his tight throat when he glanced down into its glassy eyes. "This one gave us some of our highest returns on investment," he went on. "You should have seen her when she came in here, Dean. Weak. Frail. _Human. _Pumped full of hormones, no spark to be found in her. A wet rat had more personality. But when we were done with her... Well, I can show you, can't I? Cael, bring up the photos would you?"

One of the demons gave a quick nod, picking up a computer tablet from the desk, and starting to tap at it. Dean looked over when the television flicked on, the first image to pop up of a young werewolf. She was still in her humanoid form, her ears slicked back, blue eyes averted from the camera. What Dean could see of her body, she was malnourished, and bleeding from the chains on her wrists and ankles. The image changed, the next showing that she was in the middle of her transformation, fur erupting all over her bloody body. The next picture came up, the werewolf fully transformed now, her claws and teeth gleaming as she lunged for the camera.

"Look at her. You can see it in her eyes now," Dick said from Dean's side. Dean focused on her eyes, pupils slits against her now silver irises. "The _spark._ It's a process to recreate it in a subject, but when it works, it can turn one sadly, unimpressive lycanthrope into _this."_

The image switched again, the werewolf out in a forest now. She was howling at something, possibly the moon with how the light made her dark fur look blue. "A pure-bred _Panthera siberias bipedalis_ in perfect condition," Dick said, sounding almost proud. "That full chest, that glossy coat — it only comes from a nutrient-dense diet of wild-caught salmon and whatever other animals she was feeding on. It took three days of tracking to bring her down, but I got her with a '36 Winchester 70 from five hundred yards away. Beautiful shot."

It took Dean a moment to process that, before it hit him like a gunshot. His heart pounded, eyes moved back toward the skulls, the plaques, the werewolf rug, and then over to the cabinet filled with several large rifles. _What did Dick do to all these people? _he had wondered, and now he knew the answer.

"You hunt them," he whispered.

He looked at Dick, the light from the fire making the man's eyes seem to glow. "Yes," he murmured with a dark, hungry grin. "Yes, I do."

Dean went numb at that, heart lurching into his throat. _He's hunting them, he's _hunting _them, _was all he could think, until Dick spoke again.

"Your brother thought he could bring down my entire operation, Dean. He was wrong. I'd like to keep him wrong. Alasi?"

Another demon stepped forward, the one had been pleased by Dick's earlier insult. "Sir," he said briskly.

"Give Mr. Winchester a tour of the facilities," Dick said to him with a pleased-looking smile. "Let's find out how he came to choose us as his destination, and if we'll be having any other guests stop by."

The demon grinned. "With pleasure, sir."

Dean was dragged to his feet before he could protest, his knee giving out on him almost immediately. He sagged to the floor, only kept upright by the hands on his arms, but he hardly noticed. His mind swirled, thoughts of _he's hunting them, _mixing with the memory of all those names and faces he had looked at. All those lost people, all those families destroyed, because the sick bastard _hunted _them for his own sick pleasure. Like they were _animals_.

And Sam, what he had must done to _Sam, _his baby brother...

Dean tasted bile in his throat again. He needed to yell. Lash out. Fight. Kill. _Something_. The demons' grip was too tight though, his struggles to free himself futile. He could yell though, even though he wasn't sure what he said to Dick until he snarled it through gritted teeth.

"You're a fucking _monster._"

The demons stopped when Dick held up his hand. Dean frowned in surprise when the man approached him, bending down to his eye level. In his eyes, Dean could see a vast emptiness, like an abyss that would swallow him whole.

"Oh Dean. There's no such thing as monsters," Dick Roman purred, with a slow shake of his head. "We're all just _meat_."

* * *

**Present**

* * *

The roar of a gunshot jerked Dean out of the memory.

He jumped a mile, cursing under his breath as he frantically looked around the forest. That had sounded like a rifle; it had sounded _close _too_, _but where had it come from?

Dean's questioned was answered when there were two more shots in quick succession. With their fading echos, they were followed by distant shouts and yells. Dean couldn't make out what they were saying, but then there was a sound that he understood completely.

A scream.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean ran as fast as he could, following the echoes of that scream. Around him, the forest had come alive with sound, shouts and yells becoming more coherent. "Cut it off, cut it off!" someone was yelling, while another cried, "Watch out!" There was another gunshot, another terrified scream; Dean cursed, and ran faster.

Someone was being hunted. Dean knew that like he knew the name of every bone in the human hand; like he knew the name of every gun his father had ever owned. His heart leaped when he realized who the hunted could be, and he pushed himself harder despite his knee's protest, flying past trees and ferns.

_What if it was Sam? _What if Dick and his demons were going after him?

Dean leaped over a log, but when he touched the ground, his knee gave out on him. He caught himself on a tree before he toppled over, hissing through gritted teeth as pain flared up his body. There was no time to check on his knee, however; _you have to move, you have to move, _he thought, pushing off the trunk and placing weight on his leg. It held, barely, but with the shouts growing fainter, it would have to do. He limped forward frantically, coaxing himself along with, _On your feet, soldier, on your feet—_

He only noticed the body on the ground when he almost stepped on it, and he stumbled backwards with another curse. As the shock faded, he ended up staring at the corpse, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. With its camouflage clothing, the body blended right into the forest floor, sunglasses skewed on its face revealing black eyes. That was its only identifiable feature, the rest of the demon's body bloated and blue, foam covering its lips. _Poison, _Dean realized, but grew confused. What could have poisoned it?

He jumped when he heard a shout, whirling around in the direction it had came in. Whomever had made the sound was close, _too _close, Dean hearing the crunch and snap of twigs and leaves as they approached. He only had a moment to dart back for the safety of the trees, barely hiding behind a bush and several ferns when several demons emerged from the forest. Dean froze when he caught sight of them, heart leaping again even though it was for an entirely new reason.

It was like his memories of the Azazel Uprising war had leached out of his brain and come to life again. The demons were in familiar camouflage fatigues with hoods lined with fur, light glaring off sunglasses that protected their sensitive eyes. They were heavily armed too, carrying pistols, assault rifles, knives and more; one even had grenades strapped to his chest. At the head of the group was a demon Dean recognized from Dick's lodge, her black uniform replaced with fatigues, a patch on her arm indicating her rank as a captain. She also had the largest weapon, a massive silver Winchester Model 70 hunting rifle strapped to her rucksack. It wasn't military grade, but Dean knew a rifle like that was powerful enough to take down a bear.

The weapons were a far cry from the pistols and torture instruments the demons had had at the lodge. Demons weren't even allowed to own anything above a pistol, and that too could be limited based on where they lived. Yet here they were, Dick apparently letting his demons run rampant on his island armed military-grade weapons.

_Son of a bitch, _Dean thought. Any demons coming after him and Sam were going to be armed with _assault rifles_.

It really was like the war again. He felt the inexplicable urge to look behind him, half-expecting to see an eight-year-old Sam desperately trying not to cry as the demons drew ever closer to their hiding spot. _It's okay, Sammy, _Dean had whispered to him at the time while loading shells into his shotgun. It hadn't been okay, but he had reassured his little brother anyway. _It's okay._

He shook off the memory when he heard the captain barking an order. She and the lieutenant of the squad stood by the corpse, the captain's fingers on the mouthpiece of the headset she was wearing. She was looking out at the forest, as if she could see whomever she was talking to. "Bring that thing down _now_," she snapped and, off in the distance, there was another roar of a gunshot.

_No_, Dean thought, head jerking in the direction of the sound. As the echoes of the gunshot faded, only silence followed, and his heart plummeted. Had the demons killed whatever they had been chasing? _Please_ _don't be Sam_, he thought, gritting his teeth, _Please don't be Sam._

He didn't know what he'd do if it _was_ Sam.

"It's down."

Dean looked back at the demons. "Confirmed, the djinn is down," the captain said with a wry grin, the other demons visibly relaxing.

_Djinn? _Dean frowned. The people with the blue skin and the weird tattoo-like markings? He had never met one in person, but he knew what they were. They were poisonous after all, glands in their hands and the saliva from their mouths secreting their poison. _Always check to make sure they're wearing gloves_, Dean had been told, _And never kiss one._

With a start, Dean looked over at the body on the ground, and then out at the forest. Was that who the demons had been after? A djinn, and not Sam? Relief coursed through Dean then. It hadn't been Sam. _It hadn't been Sam_.

It had been someone else.

He cringed. A person had been murdered, and he was, _celebrating_ it. But why? Why were the demons going after a djinn? It didn't sound like Dick was with them, with how the captain had been barking orders at the shooter. Wouldn't their priority be him though, the one who had escaped their clutches?

He looked back at the demons as they started to move. The captain was talking on her radio again, saying something about them being right there. With a few hand gestures, she gave several orders that had two of the demons springing forward. One moved ahead of the group, gun at ready, while the other scooped the body up from the ground and trailed after him. The lieutenant stayed at the captain's side, watching her as she reached for her mouthpiece again.

"Luce!" she snapped, looking in the direction they had first came. "Luce, this isn't a goddamn leisure stroll — hurry the fuck up!"

From the trees emerged another demon, Dean frowning at the sight of him. While dressed like the others, there were no signs of his rank on his arm. He didn't look military like the others, his long bleach-blond hair streaked with red highlights, his coat unzipped with a thick scarf woven around his neck. He carried his assault rifle across his shoulders and, as he had been accused, he strolled right up to the other two, boots crunching loudly in the undergrowth.

"Easy, Zane, easy," he drawled, and even with her sunglasses on, Dean could tell the captain was not impressed. "You already got the thing, what's the rush?"

"We're on a schedule," she pointed out, but that only made the other demon smirk.

"And you're doing a fine job of keeping us on it too. Good thing too, given how the boss asks for complacency." The demon examined his sharp nails, his grin turning into a smarmy smirk. "Of course, who knows how the boss will feel about complacency with a .09 percent death rate."

Dean had no idea what they were talking about; whatever it was, the captain didn't take kindly to the remark. "It'll be .18 soon enough," she snarled, canines baring with the threat. The other demon didn't seem bothered, however; he only chuckled darkly, before striding off after the others.

In his wake, the lieutenant sneered. "I hope he gets eaten."

"From your lips to Lucifer's ears," the captain replied dryly, which earned her a laugh. The humor wasn't shared; she licked her fangs, a sign she was nervous. Whatever the cause was, it didn't stop her from heading after her squad, the lieutenant following close behind.

Dean let out the breath he was holding onto when they passed his hiding spot without noticing him. He peered out once they were gone, and for a moment, he was unsure of what to do. Part of him wanted to get as far away as he could from the demons; his priority was finding Sam, after all. But there was knowledge to be gained if he went after them — how many demons there were, for one, how armed they were, maybe information on why they were going after a djinn instead of him. Any intel that enemy forces didn't know you knew could be the difference between life and death on the battlefield, as his dad would have said.

_Balls, _Dean thought. Running away would be so much easier.

His knee held when he put his weight on it, Dean carefully making his way after the squad. He relied on the ferns, bushes and trees for cover, keeping one eye on the ground to watch where he stepped, another on the trees to see which direction the wind was blowing to ensure he stayed downwind. Though it had been years since he had had to use such a specific set of skills on avoiding being seen by demons, it came back to him naturally. _Guess there are some things you just can't forget, _he thought grimly.

The demons moved in one of their standard military formations — one point person, the rest in pairs spaced out by several feet — maneuvering easily through the forest in a way that suggested they were quite familiar with it. They didn't seem to be worried about any danger either (but demons were always pretty confident), the captain and lieutenant conversing as they marched along. Dean only could catch bits of their conversation when he drew close enough, the lieutenant giving some sort of report.

"—the latest from the infrared scans are probably fairly accurate," she said. "The only one that's gonna be tough to find is the angel. It's been all over sector A lately — Terra and Michal been smellin' it for days."

Dean perked up at the mention of Castiel, and then frowned when the captain let out the smallest chuckle.

"He's hungry," she murmured, Dean having to read her lips to catch it. He slowed at that, confused, and then frowned again when the other demon twisted her head sharply to look at her.

There was an entire conversation in the glance they shared, before the lieutenant sneered again. "Well, that's just great, then."

"He won't be our problem," the captain replied, but that only made the other snort.

"Right," she muttered, "We're the ones going to the ghost forest. We have our own problems."

Dean didn't get a chance to wonder what the hell that all meant — and had she said _ghost forest? _— as the lieutenant then muttered, "Why we doin' this, Zane?"

The captain gave her another look, but the lieutenant wasn't having it. She pulled her to a stop, leaning in as her voice dropped. Dean had to strain to hear what she was saying, creeping closer to listen.

"Everyone's talkin' 'bout it," she said. "Alasi and his team dead; Neil and his group are headed back to town. You tell us we're under orders to quarantine the island in _two days_. Hate to give the kid any credit, but Luce's got a point with the complacency thing. What the hell is goin' on?"

Dean honed in on that. Demons were going back into town? _Bobby_. What if they suspected Dean hadn't been working on his own, and went looking for his accomplices? He and Bobby had used fake names wherever they had went, but as was the way in small towns, everyone knew they were outsiders the moment they arrived. If demons were going to come around to ask about recent visitors, all someone had to do was tell them about Bobby. If they got to him...

"Remember the Winchester?"

Dean stiffened.

"The general or lawyer?" The lieutenant replied sarcastically.

"The District Attorney," the captain corrected with a snort. She was looking out in the direction where the rest of the squad was, but then turned back to the lieutenant. "His brother showed up this morning. Snuck right in without any of us even noticing."

The other demon's fell open; the captain nodded as if the other had expressed doubts. "We caught him, but when Alasi took him away for questioning, the human somehow got ahold of one of their weapons. He shot all three of them, and then escaped out here."

Hearing the story of his escapades told so simply, Dean didn't think it sounded as daring as it had been. (And he hadn't been taken away for questioning — he had been taken away to be _tortured_. Alasi had been the demon to hint that Sam might still be alive on the island somewhere, which had given Dean the will to lunge for the gun in the first place.) The lieutenant looked impressed, however; nervous too, when she ran her tongue along her teeth.

"That's why we're quarantining," the captain muttered, and then gestured the lieutenant forward. They started walking again, Dean following as closely as he could. "If he showed up, who's to say the authorities aren't right on our doorstep? The fucking _army_? One Winchester came pretty damn close to exposing us. Who knows how close his brother is, or if we're already compromised."

"I think you're giving that human far too much credit, Zane," interrupted a familiar voice. Dean caught sight of the demon Luce beside a tree, which he bounced off of to approach the other two. He said something Dean didn't catch, but whatever it was, it annoyed the other two.

"I know you're too young to know the name Winchester, kid, but never underestimate one," the lieutenant said.

"This isn't your usual cushy job here, Luce, getting to play with the animals all day," the captain added as she pushed some branches out of their path. "If you're not _careful_, if you don't respect your _products_, you're going to find a werewolf clawing your heart out after its run you down, and none of us will be there to help you."

Dean froze.

_Werewolf._

There was a _werewolf_ on the island.

It wasn't even a surprise there was one, really, but Dean felt his heart start to pound anyway. The werewolves he had seen in Dick's office had all been fully transformed; Dick hadn't provided the hormonal treatments needed to keep them from _not _changing. Dean knew the stories from the old days — Grandpa Samuel was always bringing them up when they were kids — about what happened when a werewolf changed and so often turned on those they once called friends. But the change was worse for a werewolf who had been on shots and then suddenly wasn't. Dean had seen it at the Colt's Gate: Werewolves going rabid as their long-dormant hormones surged back with a vengeance; when their bones cracked and regrew to conform to their new shape and their natural instincts took over.

But that wasn't what scared Dean (though that was scary enough). Werewolves were carnivores, no amount of shots could change that. When transformed, they no longer differentiated between people and prey… And this werewolf was on an island that, as far as Dean had seen, didn't have any animals on it that it could eat. But there were plenty of people...

_We're all just meat, _Dean remembered Dick saying, and his stomach dropped. Fuck, he really could not think about that. He really, really couldn't think about _Sam _trapped on an island with a hungry _werewolf_—

The demons had stopped again, Dean glancing over when the captain's voice rose in clear anger. The demon Luce seemed to be the source of it still; he had bared his teeth in displeasure, but the captain wasn't threatened. "Unless you want to take the worst path there is to meeting our father in Hell, I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut," she snapped. "I have two days to kill and dispose of everything on this island, and no patience for the likes of you. Do you understand?"

Dean's chest tightened. _Two days to kill everything on the island? _Did she mean all the people? Why were the demons killing them?!

The answer, when it came to him, made Dean swallow down bile. It was because of_ him_. The captain had said as much. _If he showed up, who's to say the authorities aren't right on our doorstep? The fucking army? _They were hiding the evidence, weren't they, by getting rid of it...

He was going to get everyone on this island _killed_.

He felt paralyzed, sick_, _but his eye was drawn over when he heard the captain speaking again. They had come to another small clearing in the forest, Dean seeing a number of demons standing around. It wasn't curiosity that made Dean creep forward to investigate; he wasn't sure what it was. His mind felt foggy, slow, dumb, afraid of what he might see, but needing to anyway.

At the angle he was at, he could make out the entire clearing. There were at least a dozen demons, standing near a body on the ground. It was the djinn, blue skin and tattoo-like spirals on its arms and legs bloody from the torso down. Aside from the gunshot wound on its chest, it was in terrible shape: shredded clothes barely hanging onto its skeletal body; arms and shoulders littered with bite marks and scars.

Dean's heart clenched. He had celebrated the djinn's death only minutes ago. Celebrated the death of an innocent person who had been starved and shot...

"I want this site quarantined. You have thirty minutes," the captain was saying to two demons, Dean looking over at her. When they didn't move, she grew angry. _"Now_."

None of them moved; instead, a demon standing near the djinn piped up. "It killed Rasi," he muttered. He waved his hand over to where the body of the dead demon was. It had been placed near the pit, and someone had draped a cloth over its face. "_Quarantine _is too nice a way to go."

"Still got some meat on it too," another demon chimed in, which earned nods from several others. He licked his lips, shuffling on his feet. "Seems a shame to waste it."

Dean frowned at that, and then looked over when the djinn stirred with the softest of moans. _It's still alive, _Dean realized, and then felt a stab of panic as he looked from the djinn to the demons around it. _It was still alive, _and the demons were talking about...

The lieutenant stepped toward the captain, leaning in to say something to her. At the angle Dean was at, he could only read her lips. "Boss did ask for complacency."

The captain's back straightened, her fist clenching at her side. "Don't make a mess of yourselves," she snapped after a moment, and then turned away. She said something else, but Dean didn't hear her, heart pounding too loudly too. The other demons were moving in toward the djinn, who tried to raise its hands to defend itself. Its wrists were snatched before he could though, and the it let out a terrified, pleading sound.

There was nothing Dean could do for it.

He could only watch in horror as the demons began to eat the djinn alive.


	7. Chapter 7

"Son, are you sure about this?"

It was a question Bobby had asked Dean when he had been almost ready to leave for the island. They had still been at the motel, Bobby nursing a drink at the table while he had watched Dean pack. There had been an expression on his face that Dean knew quite well, having seen that look on and off for months. Like all those times before, he had decided to ignore it, but Bobby's question wasn't as easily brushed off.

It had made Dean look down at the photograph he had in his hand. Its corners were frayed, with a large crease down the center from its time in his wallet. He had run his thumb along one of the torn edges, and then huffed under his breath. Bobby's question was stupid really, he had thought. They had spent months piecing together everything that Sam had discovered, and had driven more than three-thousand miles just for the slim chance of exposing Dick Roman's operation. Now that Dean had the opportunity to take down Dick himself, Bobby wanted to know if he was _sure_?

But Dean had found himself hesitating, his eyes falling to the photograph again. Despite its condition, the image was clear: Sam, in a black tux, with an arm around Jess, radiant in her wedding dress. They both held a twin, only babies at the time, red dresses complimenting curly blond hair. They were all smiling too, even the twins, a perfect family captured in a perfect moment.

A perfect family torn apart by Dick Roman.

Dean remembered clenching his fist against his side. He moved on then, briskly and efficiently, as if stripping a weapon. He set the photo in the box he had been packing; inside was his dad's leather jacket and journal, the only picture he had of his mom, and the amulet Sam had given him when they were kids. He closed up the box, and ran tape along the seams before he neatly wrote Jess's California address on the top.

When he finished, he had taken a deep breath and a swig of brandy for the road, before turning to Bobby.

"Bobby," he had said with a smile that, for the first time in months, he didn't have to force. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Now, after hours of being on the island, Dean wasn't sure of anything any more.

Doubts, however, weren't something he could entertain. _Just get to the mountain_, he told himself, concentrating only on that. It wasn't easy: the pain from his knee had spread until his entire body ached; when the sun set, not only did the temperature plummet, it became harder to see where he was going. The only light was from the moon, when the clouds parted long enough for it to shine through. Still, he pressed on, because that was a thing he could _do_... And he had to do _something_, even if it was just putting one foot in front of another.

Even that had its limits, though. His knee gave out on him when he was halfway up a hill, Dean cursing when he started to slip backwards. He slid right into a tree, and after a moment to think _Really? _he pushed off the wood with one arm, only for the limb to give out completely. His body sagged against the trunk, and the relief coursing through his tired muscles meant no number of _"on your feet, soldier, on your feet" _was enough to get him up again.

He gave up after the third attempt. With a sigh, he settled back against the tree, curling into his jacket for warmth. The forest around him was silent save for his harsh breathing, though that only made him wish it was just as quiet in his head.

Sam's whispers of _Promise me _mixed in with the sounds of a person screaming as they were eaten alive, and Dean wasn't sure if he would ever be able to stop hearing it.

He shoved that thought away, but there wasn't much else to think about except how tired and cold he was. Even with thermals, two shirts, a button down and a jacket, Dean wasn't keeping warm. It was his own damn fault for not wearing more, since Bobby _had _insisted he wear at least another layer and a thicker coat, just in case he did end up hiking all over the island. Dean had ignored him in favor of pulling on his second favorite jacket instead — at the time, who cared about the weather when he hadn't planned on coming back at all?

Bobby had called him an idjit before letting it go, but now Dean wished he hadn't. Though it was no fault of Bobby's, Dean wouldn't have minded if the old man had been more insistent about, well, _everything_. He had always talked Dean out of doing stupid things, but it seemed like forever since he had last tried to do that. Right around the time Sam had disappeared actually, now that Dean thought about it.

But that was when everything had changed, for all of them…

When Sam had first went missing, an entire city had mobilized to try to find him. Being in a high-profile position as an assistant district attorney of New York City, Sam had his fair share of enemies. That meant a long list of suspects: every criminal he had helped put away; any person that felt slighted by the D.A.'s office; anyone trying to get at the D.A. herself, using Sam as a pawn. Demons had been possible suspects too, some groups still bitter about the war, and willing to take out their grievances out on a son of a general if they had the chance.

It had all gone wrong when the police found a bank account, a rental car and a plane ticket to Mexico under one of Sam's known aliases. He and Dean had had many of them over the years; whether it was to avoid being targeted by demons after the war, or just to get a job before they were legal so they had money to buy food, those fake names had been vital. Their aliases had became public record over the years from their juvenile arrests and warrants, and when his brother had revealed them all when he started working for the city. So when one of those names had popped up again, the police had grown skeptical that Sam was actually missing. No matter how much Dean tried to convince otherwise, the evidence against him was damning.

As bad as it had been for Dean, however, it had been worse for Jess. She had been the only who seemed to keep it together the entire time, putting school on hold so she could deal with everything. There had been a lot to do — making missing person flyers, organizing searches, setting up the tip lines, assisting various detectives and FBI — but she had handled it all without complaint. She even kept the girls on their strict schedule of preschool, afternoon activities and bedtime by seven-thirty. It was almost like Sam had never disappeared, until one of the girls asked where their daddy was or Dean caught Jess crying.

But when Jess had learned that the police thought Sam had left on his own, only then had Dean learned what heartbreak really looked like.

Those memories chilled him more than the cold. He had never felt more like a failure than when he couldn't convince his brother's wife that her husband hadn't left her. Maybe because he felt so guilty, since he had known something was wrong the moment Sam turned to him and said, _Promise me._

But none of that would matter soon, he reminded himself, pushing off the tree to tackle the hill with new enthusiasm. Once he found his brother, it would be like he never disappeared at all. Jess wouldn't feel betrayed anymore, the twins would have their father back, Sam would be with his family again, and everything would be _perfect. _

Unless his brother was dead.

Dean cursed. _Don't think about that either, _he ordered himself. Going down that rabbit hole meant thinking about hurt and scared angels, rabid, hungry werewolves, demons eating people, and how he was getting everyone on this island killed. He didn't want to think about how Dick had said that they were all meat, and meant it _literally. _And he was definitely not thinking about Sam's voice whispering, _Promise me, Dean. Promise me—_

There was a loud _snap, _Dean freezing in his tracks. He was behind a tree in the next moment, hand stealing toward his gun tucked in his waistband as he scanned the forest. There was no other sound or any kind of movement, but he didn't want to take any chances. Demons were sneaky sons-of-bitches, and if it was a werewolf…

Well, werewolves were the unpredictable factor. Was it male or female for one? Dean could only hope it _wasn't_ a female — they made males look like puppies. But had the werewolf been taught to hunt? When did it last have its shots? Was it fully transformed? If it was…

A gleam of light streaming along his watch caught Dean's eye, shadows on the ground chased away as they were bathed in cool hues. The cloud were splitting open to reveal the stars, along with one thing Dean had completely forgotten about.

The full moon.

"Balls," he breathed, and it was no surprise when a long, low howl lifted up from the forest. Werewolves called it the song to the moon: a lullaby to her wax and wane, a call for her watchful gaze to guide them through the night. Dean was right under her too, with no idea how far away the werewolf was. He wasn't sticking around to find out; he got right on the "running away" part as he pulled away from the tree.

He only managed one step before he came face-to-face with a demon.

"Well, well," the demon said with a smirk, eyes flicking black. His assault rifle was trained on Dean, the muzzle bumping into his chest. "What do we have here?"

_Son of a bitch, _Dean thought, raising his hands as he backed up slowly. He hesitated when, to his surprise, he _recognized _the demon, who had started chuckling while he looked Dean up and down.

"You got pretty far, didn't you?" Luce said, grinning. "Guess they were right about never underestimating a Winchester. But I'm kind of glad you didn't get picked off right away. Think of what they'll say when I bring you in."

Dean was only half-listening. If he had run into one demon, that meant there were more near by, he thought. He had to get away from demon and werewolf alike, but he needed a distraction first.

It came, before Dean even had time to think of one. "Luce!" a voice called from the forest. When the demon glanced over, that was Dean's opening, and he surged forward.

He swung to the side, out of the rifle's line of sight, grabbing the muzzle of the gun with one hand. In two swift movements, Dean had control of the weapon, Luce silent when the muzzle of the gun slammed straight into his face.

The demon stumbled back, Dean yanking the gun away from his grip. He struck again with the butt of the rifle, going for the throat to silence him before the demon found his voice. Luce's eyes bulged as he gurgled loudly, and it was that look of surprise that Dean smashed the rifle into again. There was a satisfying crack of bone that he relished, the demon falling to the ground with a loud thud.

Dean let out the breath he was holding onto, stepping away from the body. The demon's face was a mess of dark blood; if he was unconscious or dead, Dean didn't care. _Never underestimate a Winchester,_ he thought at him, before assessing his new weapon. It was a unique design, possibly made by one of Richard Roman Enterprise's firearm companies. It reminded him of a M4 carbine, a weapon he knew how to do a lot of damage with.

He only had a moment to appreciate the gun when he heard someone approaching. There was no time to hide, three demons emerging from the forest. "Dammit, Luce," the lead one was hissing. "What did we say about wandering off—"

The squad halted at the sight of Dean. They looked from him, to the demon on the ground, and then back at Dean.

Dean forced a grin, and held up his hand. "Uh, hello," he quipped.

He threw himself to ground when they opened fire. Bullets whizzed over his head, Dean cursing and crawling for the safety of a tree trunk. "Pin him down, pin him down!" a demon yelled, and Dean glanced over, seeing one, no two, demons darting opposite directions away from the third.

He ducked back behind the tree trunk, knowing the demons were going to flank him if he remained where he was. He needed to move _now, _and he waited for the lull in the shots before twisting around the trunk and returning fire. It didn't matter where he shot — the demons ducked, and Dean didn't hesitate. He threw himself into a roll, using the inertia to land on his feet and bolt.

_Distance_, he thought as he ran. He needed distance. With his new weapon, Dean knew the odds were in his favor, but he was limited to what remained in its one clip. With distance, he had a better chance of picking them off. It was a just matter of not getting shot in the meantime, easier said than done when bullets tore into the trees he was flying past. The demons yelled from somewhere behind him, Dean sparing a glance over his shoulder. They were hot on his heels, and with a curse, he pumped his legs harder.

Luck threw him a bone; the forest opened up, Dean noticing he was running along the top of a hill. He made a split-second decision and ran down the slope, rocks and dirt tumbling after him. He slipped halfway down, sliding right into a boulder at the bottom. The rifle bounced out of his hands, and slid further down into a bush. The tactic paid off, however, Dean looking up when the demons above him ran by.

"Hurry! Don't lose him!" one of them yelled as they disappeared back into the forest.

_It worked,_ Dean thought, hands stinging as he pushed himself off the boulder. His knee ached, too, but it held his weight, which Dean was grateful for. The demons would probably figure out that they lost him pretty quick, and Dean wanted to be ready for them by the time they circled back around. He looked over to where the rifle had fallen, plan already forming inside his head.

It was time to show these demons what it was like to be hunted.

A loud snort ended cut Dean off mid-smirk, and the low growl that followed made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He slowly looked over, meeting bright eyes from across the way. It wasn't another demon: she was too tall, too lithe, and clearly hadn't her shots in a long, long time. Dean glanced over her fur-covered body, at the saliva dangling from her lips, and then back up at her silver eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled.

The werewolf snarled.


	8. Chapter 8

The werewolf was a seamless mix of human and animal, towering two feet over Dean as she strode into the moonlight. Tufted ears protruded out of a wild mane of black hair, dark fur covering the rest of her skin-and-bones body. In her transformed state, her elongated back arched forward, making her gaunt arms hang low, claws scraping along dirt as she walked.

As she lumbered toward him, the stench of death and decay came with her. Dean's eyes watered from the sheer force of it, but any pity he felt faded when he saw the look in her bright silver eyes. There was no trace of humanity in them, only a hunger so palpable that Dean very quickly realized what she seeing him as.

_Meat._

"Son of a bitch," he hissed, reaching for his pistol as he slowly backed up. The werewolf matched him step-for-step, seemingly unconcerned when he pointed the weapon at her. She only moved closer, Dean cursing again.

It was a struggle not to just shoot her then and there. Dean had to forcibly remind himself that, past the hunger and fur and teeth, she was a _person_. She easily could have been one of Dean's army buds, or Sam's ex-girlfriend, Madison, or their childhood friend, Paul, who loved nothing more than to chase tennis balls. If this werewolf had had her shots — or if she was anywhere but this godforsaken island — she wouldn't have been reduced to what she was now: an_ animal_.

"Don't do this," he coaxed. He had heard that it was possible to talk a werewolf out their rabid state — not that Dean had ever seen it work. Still, he had to try for her sake. "I'm human. Werewolves don't hunt humans anymore, remember? We're friends now. Brothers, sisters, in-arms."

She didn't listen — Dean wondered if she could even understand him, or worse, if she just didn't _care._ Her hackles rose and she began to snarl, claws flexing as she bent low. It reminded Dean of a large cat about to launch after prey; apt, since despite their canine-like name, werewolves were more related to the big cats. Dean shook his head desperately. "No. I can _save_ you."

The werewolf let out a roar and surged forward, Dean cursing and firing. If he hit her, he never knew, one powerful smack to his chest sending him flying.

He hit the ground hard, rolling over and over — losing the gun along the way — until he collided with a large rock. As stars exploded in his eyes, he could hear Sam reciting, _"Lycanthropes use powerful strikes to immobilize their prey."_

Sam had been reading that to Paul — how old had Sammy been anyway? Four, and already learning how to read? — Dean remembering how excited the pup was about his emerging hunting instincts. Paul had wanted to test them out, and it had all been fun and games until the young werewolf had hurled Dean right into a pile of medical supplies. Man, how Dad had ripped him a new one for that…

The world came back into focus, pained amusement replaced with terror when Dean saw the werewolf headed straight for him.

_Son of a bitch, son of a bitch_, he thought, feet sliding in dirt and leaves as he scrambled to get up. He hurled himself off the boulder just as she was on him, Dean feeling the air get sucked away when she sailed past and hit the rock. He didn't dare look back, hearing jaws snap in the space he'd left behind as he started to run. The werewolf roared again, giving chase.

_I'm going to be werewolf chow_, Dean thought hysterically, flying through the forest. There was no way he could actually outrun her — but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try! — and he could sense she was gaining on him. He pumped his legs harder, his thoughts becoming more and more hysterical: He was going to taste like whiskey-marinated steak; he was going to rest in peace in_ pieces; he was going to die_.

The forest cleared and Dean found himself out in the open, no trees or rocks to slow the werewolf's pursuit. He didn't have time to turn around, the werewolf striking him again from behind. Pain lanced up Dean's back and chest when he landed, rolling over rocks and dirt until he slid to a stop. The blow immobilized him, blood pooling from his mouth as he wheezed for air.

In a haze of pain, he remembered Sam, the way his brother turned to him with hollow eyes and whispered, _Promise me. _Dean's heart clenched, before his vision focused back on the werewolf. She was sliding to a stop in front of him, razor-sharp claws swinging down. Dean cringed, bracing himself. Oh, this was going to fucking _hurt_—

Her claws never hit.

One moment, the werewolf was right in front of him; the next, a black blur rammed into her with all the force of a speeding train. It happened so fast Dean thought he'd imagined it, and he had to look down at his chest just to make sure. It was still there, aching and heaving, but free of blood.

_What the hell?_ he thought before looking to where the werewolf gone. She was on the ground several feet away, pushing up on her two long arms and shaking her head. Dean stared in disbelief, before turning to her attacker, gaping when bright blue eyes met his.

The angel?!

_You're supposed to be waiting for the boat,_ Dean thought stupidly as Castiel looked back at the werewolf. She was getting to her feet when Dean looked over, wiping at her face with her paw. It was a surprisingly human gesture, but that was gone the moment her eyes met theirs.

She stepped forward, bellowing a "That's my dinner!" roar if Dean had ever heard one. It turned into into a snarl as she charged, Castiel springing forward to meet her. The two behemoths clashed, except it wasn't much of a fight, the winner clear from the get-go.

The werewolf swung her arm upward in her signature strike, but where it had hit Dean, Castiel merely weaved out of the way. The angel easily avoided her next strike, and pivoted forward, snapping his foot out.

Dean watched in awe as the werewolf took two swift blows to the stomach and chest, Castiel bouncing back and lashing out with his other foot. He struck her in the side with a resounding crack that made Dean wince, the werewolf thrown to the ground again. There she lay, making one, single effort to lift up on shaking arms before collapsing with a loud whimper.

Dean gaped. _Holy shit_, that had been…

His face grew hot, and he pushed the feeling aside. _Angel fetish. Bad, _he reminded himself as Castiel strode up to him. With how fast everything had happened, it was almost surreal to see the angel so nonchalant to the werewolf he left whimpering behind him.

"Human, you must get up," he said, eyes flickering over the field and forest around them. "You must leave this place. You must cross the river to the west."

"Uh," Dean muttered, feeling stupid. Wait, why was he supposed to cross the river again? He didn't ask though; Castiel turned back at him and his cool composure was gone (or hadn't been there to begin with), Dean reading the apprehension in his eyes.

That was answer enough for now, Dean sucking in a breath before pushing past the pain in his chest and back to get to his feet. There was no ignoring his knee however; when Dean tried to stand, it gave out on him completely.

He cursed as he fell back, only to be jerked to a halt mid-air. Castiel's hand had clamped around his arm, the angel looking just as surprised by that as Dean was. He stared at Dean's arm like he didn't know what it was, before his fingers slowly curled into the fabric of his jacket. Then he took a step back, pulling Dean up to his feet like he weighed next to nothing.

Dean felt his face heat up again. He knew angels were strong, but he had to have _at least_ eighty pounds on Castiel. Yet here the angel was, taking down werewolves, catching him in midair and easily hauling him around. And when Castiel clearly wasn't in the best shape, what was he like at full strength? Dean wondered. Technically, he already knew — having seen Castiel fight in the war and all — but he also had vivid imagination for such things. Except now wasn't the time or place, Dean almost able to hear Sam's exasperated, _"Your angel fetish is showing, Dean."_

He realized he was staring at the angel's lips, cursed, and then focused back on the task of _standing._ But his knee refused to do it, feet were sliding along the rock and dirt. The pain in his ribs wasn't helping either and, frustrated, Dean forced his weight onto his bad leg. His knee popped like a gunshot, and he almost collapsed again.

Castiel's grip was firm, keeping him upright. The angel looked from his hand on Dean's arm, down to his leg, his brow slowly creasing. Whatever he saw, it seemed enough for him to decide to pull Dean's arm over his shoulder. Dean sagged against his side without really meaning to, but the angel held his weight, starting to move them back toward the forest.

_Well, this isn't embarrassing, _Dean thought, hopping unevenly along with the angel's pace. With each step, his lungs burned, and his knee and ribs sent stabs of pain through his body. But Castiel in such a rush worried Dean far more.

"Where's the fire?" he croaked out, Castiel glancing at him.

"There is no fire," he replied gruffly. Dean frowned. Had the angel just taken that question seriously? "You need to leave. The mountain is a dangerous place."

For the first time, Dean noticed the mountain to the south, its face and snow-peaked tip looming over the top of trees. His mouth fell open; he had thought Sam would be at the mountain — a mountain where a _werewolf_ lived.

Castiel went on. "You need to get across the river so your scent trail is lost."

Dean looked back at him, confused. "From the werewolf?"

"And vampirs."

The use of the correct terminology threw Dean for a moment, but it hit him in the next. He nearly tripped and fell over, the angel tightening his grip on his arm as Dean staggered back to his feet.

"Vampires?!" he cried. Oh, no, no, _no,_ that was just a sick joke, wasn't it? It had to be. _It had to be_. Werewolves without their shots were dangerous enough, but on an island where people were eating each other, why did there have to be vampires too?

At least the werewolf didn't know any better, but _vampires?_ Would they care? They still regularly drank human blood — just nowadays, they would just leave a woozy person showing symptoms of blood loss on a street for the police to find. But that was only a recent development. Dean knew the stories: how entire families used to disappear without a trace, their shriveled-up corpses found weeks later; how kids were told to never go out alone at night; the humans that were kept for weeks at a time within a nest, used as literal blood farm until the vampires grew tired of their taste and killed them.

The last known vampire-hunting-human time had been more than a half-century ago, but human-vampire relationships remained strained. Humanity had almost wiped the vampires out by the time the Third Agricultural Revolution had rolled around, and vampires were understandably still pissed about that. Got one drunk enough, and they would tell you that they still thought humans were only as good as their blood.

Dean's stomach lurched painfully. There were vampires on this island with no other food for them to eat? Why would they care about the life of another person, especially a human?

It was too much. Dean forced himself not to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about Sam living on an island with _vampires, _he told himself. He just _really _couldn't fucking think about that right now.

But his thoughts went to the one they had left behind, and he looked back at the werewolf.

She had rolled onto her side, chest heaving with her hand against her ribs, much like Dean's was against his own. Dean's heart clenched in guilt, and the words were out of his mouth before he thought them over.

"We can't leave her."

Castiel slowed a little, Dean turning back to see his confusion. Dean knew he probably sounded insane, asking the angel who had just saved his ass to now help him save the person that tried to eat him. But that was the thing: she was a _person_.

"We can't leave her," he repeated. Castiel frowned. "She's innocent in all this. The vampires and demons — they'll hurt her. Or worse."

"She… she can defend herself," Castiel said slowly. Dean lifted his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Angel, you just went all Chuck Norris on her!" he protested. Castiel's expression went from confused to blank. "Look at her, she hasn't even gotten up yet! We gotta' help her."

Castiel looked back at the werewolf again, brow furrowing. Dean felt a flicker of hope, but it faded quickly when his eyes settled on the scars on the angel's chest. They were almost luminescent in the moonlight, but also quite distinct in shape. Dean cringed and looked away when he realized where they had probably come from and who had probably given the angel them.

What was he asking the angel? he wondered.

His stomach lurched again, but one thing kept coming back to him: _it wasn't her fault_. The werewolf's humanity had been stolen from her; she was literally an animal that had been left to starve. She had never asked for this, and she didn't deserve to die for only doing what was instinct at this point. With only two days left, she_ couldn't_ die.

And the angel! Dean glanced back at Castiel. The angel had hurt the werewolf, but only to immobilize her, when he could have easily killed her. He hadn't though, and that had to mean something, right? Dean could only hope as Castiel looked back at him.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, and Dean's heart leaped, before he grinned in relief. He _knew_ the angel would understand… but he had also asked a very good question. Half a dozen ideas flashed through Dean's mind, and he snagged the first one that made the most practical sense.

"Knock her out, with a blood choke," he said, demonstrating with one arm. Castiel's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We can carry her away to a safe spot. Past the river, right? She'll be safe there?"

"Yes," Castiel said and Dean grinned again. But it faded when, to Dean's embarrassment, the angel gingerly maneuvered him around to prop him up against the nearest tree. Dean went to protest — they were _both_ supposed to be carrying her — but Castiel darted away before he could get a word in.

"I'll just wait here then," Dean muttered sarcastically, but shut up when his ribs throbbed with pain as if telling him off.

He watched Castiel instead. The werewolf was hissing at the angel as he approached, her hackles rising from her head to tail. Castiel slowed, but the werewolf wasn't having it; she staggered onto her feet, swiping at the angel to keep him back. Dean was impressed — she still had some fight in her, injured or not — Castiel avoiding each swipe easily as he circled around for an opening.

He suddenly turned though, looking in the direction Dean was in. Dean frowned, confused, and then heard shouts coming from the forest.

He nearly fell off his tree when the three demons burst into the clearing.


End file.
